


When He Falls

by Tathrin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Dark, Dark Mark, Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-04
Updated: 2010-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-13 12:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tathrin/pseuds/Tathrin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something's gone wrong in the Malfoy household and it breaks a father's heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is terribly dark subject matter, albeit never explicitly described. Still, you're been warned.

Draco tripped and sprawled forward but never hit the ground; Lucius already had his wand out and pointed. Draco slowly floated back to his feet. He turned around with a grin. “Thanks, father!” he said cheerfully then took off again, skipping recklessly down the uneven field. Lucius could feel tears prickling at his eyes. He was supposed to always be there when his son fell, supposed to save him from everything, but he hadn’t—

Hadn’t—

 _His own father_.

His eyes narrowed. Lucius and Abraxas Malfoy had never been close. Abraxas was cold, distant, and domineering while Lucius had been proud, sarcastic, and independent. Abraxas had never seemed to completely hate the boy, not his own heir, but he had often been terribly angry with Lucius who deliberately goaded his father and encouraged his rage. There had been more yelling between them than anything else ever since Lucius was old enough to yell back. Yelling, punishments, even the occasional beating when Lucius pushed his father too far. But _this_ …to do _this_ …no, this was something Lucius would never have suspected of his father.

Not to his own dear Draco. _No one_ hurt his son without suffering Lucius Malfoy’s vengeance, not even Abraxas.

Lucius walked a bit faster, easily catching up with the small boy. He captured one of Draco’s hands in his own and held it tightly while they walked the rest of the way to the boundaries of the castle. Draco sang some little song of his own devising and did not see the thestrals that his father watched soar overhead.

When they crossed the boundary of Hogwarts Lucius picked his son up. “Hold on tight,” Lucius commanded, and the little boy obeyed, squeezing his eyes shut. Draco liked Apparating with his parents, but watching the world suck in always made him feel sick. Lucius smoothed his son’s pale hair and murmured something comforting, then he turned on his heels and with a loud CRACK they were gone.

 

 

 

It had been Narcissa who had first realized that something was wrong. She had always been a light sleeper—Lucius had cursed this trait many times whenever he tried to slip out or creep in without waking her during the War and he had failed every time; she always woke, no matter the hour, no matter how tired she was—and a faint, muffled sound stirring her from her slumber was nothing new, although this particular sound was.

It sounded like crying. Faint, gulping, half-swallowed, thickly muffled crying.

Narcissa crept from the wide, curtained bed where her husband still slumbered undisturbed. A frown marring her smooth, pale face, she swept silently down the hall to her precious son’s room. Narcissa gently eased the door open and looked in at the source of the strange sound: little Draco, face pressed into his pillow, trying to stifle small, hiccoughing sobs.

Narcissa gasped and flew to her son’s side. She gathered the startled boy in her arms and shushed him gently, smoothing his hair and whispering nonsensical, comforting promises. She asked him what sort of nightmare he’d had but, strangely, Draco would not say.

And that was when Narcissa Malfoy knew that something was wrong.

There had never before been anything her son would not tell her—not unless he was trying to avoid getting in trouble, and that was a rarity; there was little Draco could do that would lead to censure from either of his parents, not even openly disobeying them, and he knew it—and there had never been anything he was afraid of that he hadn’t believed mother could chase away.

There’d never before been anything Draco had feared more than he’d trusted in his parents. Something cold and twisting settled in Narcissa’s gut like a terrible great snake. She didn’t know what was wrong, exactly, but she knew it was something terrible.

So she told Lucius.

She carried sniffling Draco right into the bedroom and woke her husband, handed over her son and together they cuddled and begged the little boy to tell them what was wrong but still Draco would not, or could not. The Malfoys exchanged frantic looks over the child’s head and shushed and soothed him until he fell asleep.

They did not join their small son in slumber. They were too busy panicking helplessly over what subtle horror could have crept unknown into their lives and frightened their precious, perfect little boy.

 

 

 

It was Lucius who figured it out.

Draco had grown quieter and withdrawn and prone to flinching whenever anyone other than his parents came too close. They were nearly out of their minds with worry. He cried in the night, sometimes, and they always heard him. They were listening now, listening fearfully.

They were also watching. Perhaps that was why Lucius suddenly noticed it, or perhaps he would have anyway; perhaps he always watched his father closely, a longstanding habit of wariness left over from his own harsh childhood.

But he noticed that now his son did, too.

As soon as Abraxas stepped through the door to the manor Draco went quiet and tense and hid behind his mother. It was uncommon for the boy to be so shy. They laughed about it and Narcissa tickled Draco until he giggled but when he was fished out to greet his grandfather he flinched and would not meet Abraxas’s eye.

Lucius’s eyes, gray and cold and identical to those of his father and of his son, narrowed into thin slits. When it was time for dinner he carried Draco into the dining room and sat him on the side of the table away from Abraxas. Lucius watched throughout the meal, saying little. He studied his father, and his son, and he thought very hard.

He said nothing, though. He let Narcissa carry Draco off when it was time for the sleepy, subdued little boy to go to bed, and he said nothing. He poured his father another brandy and nodded idly at his stodgy pontificating, and he said nothing. He watched Abraxas retire to his preferred guest chambers, and he said nothing. He followed Narcissa to their room and still he said nothing, but he could not sleep.

He did not lie down, but kissed Narcissa sweet dreams and left to walk the halls of their house alone in silence, thinking hard.

That was when Lucius heard it.

For once Narcissa did not wake; Lucius, worried about his wife with all this fretting, had insisted that she take a mild Sleeping Draught, promising that he would listen and would wake her if Draco needed anything. She slept, and Lucius prowled the manor, too restless to join her.

He followed those soft, muffled sounds to his son’s room late in the night.

He opened the door and froze on the threshold. His small son, looking pale and teary-eyed, sat tangled in his comforter, trying to pull away from the other man in the room: Abraxas Malfoy, Lucius’s father.

He shouldn’t have been there. Abraxas was staying with them for the week; he lived in London, but visited the manor from time to time. This was one of those times. But he should have been in his chambers, not here, in Draco’s room, long past the hour when the boy should have been safely lost in dreamland.

Lucius’s pale eyes went dark. “Father,” he said coldly.

Abraxas turned, slowly, to face his only son. The struggling boy in his grasp went still, staring at Lucius with frightened, desperate eyes.

“Get out,” said Lucius. His voice was soft, quiet; his hands were empty at his side. But there was no mistaking the threat in his words.

Abraxas rose without speaking. He nodded curtly to his son, and to his grandson, who flinched, then he walked out of the door and down the hall. Lucius watched him go. Then he crossed the room in four long strides and wrapped his small son in his arms. Draco sobbed into his father’s dressing gown until he fell asleep. Lucius smoothed the boy’s pale hair gently and tucked him in. He kissed his son’s forehead then stood up, shut the door quietly behind him, and went to find his father.

Abraxas was in the oak study. A low fire crackled in the grate, casting warm shadows around the room. Abraxas sat slouched in one of the large, old chairs in front of the mantle, calmly sipping a brandy. Lucius walked in, his gray eyes ablaze.

“Father,” he said, voice choked and frozen.

Abraxas looked up, his own expression serene. “Lucius,” he said, “join me for a drink?”

Lucius ignored the offer. “Father,” he said again, “do you remember what I told you would happen if you ever so much as laid an unkind finger on my son?” His mouth was twisted in a vicious sneer.

Abraxas opened his mouth to speak, still calm and unconcerned, but his son didn’t give him the chance.

“What did you do to him?” Lucius demanded.

Abraxas shook his head. “What you have to understand is—”

“Get out,” Lucius interrupted him.

Abraxas raised his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“I said get out of my house,” Lucius snapped.

“In the middle of the night?” his father asked mildly.

“Yes,” replied the younger Malfoy. His face was a study in frozen rage.

Abraxas sniffed, shrugged, and stood up. He set his half-finished brandy on the arm of his chair, shook his head at his son’s inexplicable behavior, and sauntered from the room. Lucius watched him go, his gray eyes daggers at his father’s back.

He didn’t move until he heard the front door open and close. Then he poured himself a glass of firewhiskey and stood long into the night, staring into the slowly dying fire. 

 

 

 

The next day Lucius waited until Narcissa was out; she had a luncheon date with a few other elegant, well-connected witches. It had been scheduled when they thought Abraxas would still be staying with them, because there was only so much of his company that Narcissa could put up with at a time and it was more pleasant for everyone if she had excuses to avoid him now and again.

She knew something was wrong; knew there was a reason why Abraxas had left suddenly in the middle of the night, but Lucius had demurred and promised to explain everything later and she had allowed it, and reluctantly left her schedule unaltered, and departed.

Then Lucius took Draco into the study with him and sat him down and asked the little boy to tell him what had happened. But Draco, looking confused and vaguely frightened, had been unable to tell him anything. He knew that Abraxas scared him, but he didn’t know why. He knew that he was unhappy about something, but couldn’t remember what. He knew that something bad had happened, but not why or when or what.

Lucius searched for bruises on his son’s pale skin but could find none.

Draco started to cry. Lucius held the little boy and rocked him in his arms until he quieted and then Lucius got out the brand new, child-sized broom the Malfoys had been saving for the end of the week to reward Draco for behaving while his grandfather was visiting. They played an abbreviated sort of Quidditch until Draco was cheered and wind-blown, pale cheeks flush with victory because his father always let him win.

By the time the game was done, Lucius knew what to do.

He gave his sweaty, grass-stained and exhausted son a bath and tucked the boy in for a nap. Then he had a wash himself—there were _leaves_ in his hair—and sat down, ponytail dripping, to write a letter. The owl brought back the reply just as Narcissa returned, slightly earlier than she was expected, and not at all mollified by Lucius’s assurances that he had the situation completely in hand and would explain everything when it was over.

He had to distract her quite thoroughly, and make all sorts of assurances, and finally he resorted to begging her help in selecting another gift for Draco since he had given him the broom already. The Malfoys liked to always have a present or two on hand that they could whip out at any moment, should they suddenly have the need for one. They went through them pretty quickly, those everyday gifts, and finding a proper replacement was a suitable task in which Cissa could briefly lose herself.

But the cool look she turned on her husband made it clear that she was diverted, not dissuaded, and his story had better be a good one, and not too long delayed. There was only so long she was willing to wait where her son’s well-being was concerned; anyone but Lucius would already have been Cruciatused for answers by now, and he well knew it.

 

 

 

The next day, Lucius and Draco set out on a journey. They Apparated into the village of Hogsmede, which Draco enjoyed exploring; they had a leisurely lunch at the Three Broomsticks, then walked the long and winding path up to the distant castle, Lucius carrying Draco for part of the way because it was rather a long walk for such a small boy, no matter how exciting he found the surroundings.

Lucius and Narcissa were still undecided on the matter of Hogwarts; Lucius thought it would be better to send Draco to Durmstrang, which taught things that Hogwarts didn’t, and which had higher standards for admittance, but Durmstrang was awfully far away, and they’d have been able to see Draco less often if he went there than if he stayed closer to home at Hogwarts. Furthermore, Lucius and Narcissa knew the headmaster at Durmstrang, and while Karkaroff was hardly a friend, he was certainly a better man than Albus Dumbledore, or at least held better associates. He was cowardly and disloyal, but he was no blood traitor, was Igor Karkaroff, and he knew Lucius Malfoy well enough to know better than to cross him. Draco would do well at Durmstrang…

But for now, they were going to Hogwarts. The Malfoys had a friend there whose help Lucius sought. Lucius Malfoy was a talented Legilimens and skilled at Memory Charms himself, but he wanted an expert, a master. Children’s minds were hard to read and dangerous to alter because they were still wild and developing and any tampering could have dire consequences.

And Lucius could recognize the signs of a botched Memory Charm as well as anyone. He knew that his father had tried to erase something from his son’s mind, but hadn’t managed to Obliviate it completely. Lucius thought he knew quite well what that something was, and Abraxas had known full well the consequences of ever raising a hand to Lucius’s precious son, but Lucius needed to be sure. He also needed to know that Draco had not been damaged in any way by the charm. Bruises could be easily erased by a skilled healing charm; mental injuries…rather less so.

So he sought the best Legilimens he knew—other than of course his lost Dark Lord and perhaps his sister-in-law, Bellatrix Lestrange, but Lucius wouldn’t have wanted help from either of them, even if they had been available—which they were not.

Lucius Malfoy respected the powerful wizard he’d once served and honored his skills and ideals but He was cold and cruel and without sympathy and Lucius had never wanted his Dark Lord anywhere near his son. And Bellatrix, she was reckless and wild and liked pain far, far too much. Lucius had barely trusted her around Draco to begin with; he certainly wouldn’t have wanted his sadistic sister-in-law crawling through his son’s delicate mind.

But Severus was a friend and a trusted one, and Lucius knew that not only could Snape be relied on not to hurt Draco, but he would also keep whatever he saw held in confidence. The Malfoys did not have to worry about leaving their secrets in the hands of Hogwarts’ Potions Master.

 

 

 

Draco found the Potions Master’s office fascinating. While his father chatted amiably with his old friend, Draco peered into all the shadowy corners and studied the strange contents of the jars and shelves that lined the walls. He kept his hands clasped behind his back because his father had been very strict that he was not to touch anything, but he could not stop looking. His small voice piped up, interrupting the grown-ups’ discourse, asking what this was, what that did, where Snape had found those, and so forth.

He fell silent at last when Snape told him that the tall jar he was staring at held human fingernails. Draco walked back over to his father and climbed up into Lucius's lap, his eyes wide and glittering with a mixture of awe and delighted horror. He didn't ask any more questions after that, but he didn't stop looking, either, and on his small face was something almost like a smile.

Lucius took that opportunity to explain what he needed done. Snape, of course, already knew, because Lucius had written to ask him for it when they scheduled their meeting, but Draco had his part to play, as well. Lucius told his son that it was very important that he sit still and stare at Severus and do his best not to blink, because Snape had to cast a spell, but everything would be just fine because Severus was a friend, and did Draco think he could do that for him, please?

“Of course, father!” the small boy exclaimed, opening his eyes so wide they started to water almost immediately. Lucius smiled fondly and smoothed his son’s pale hair.

Snape leaned in, his own dark eyes glittering, and Lucius placed his hand on Draco’s shoulder and said nothing. All three of them were quiet for a very long time. There was an oddly blank look on Draco’s face as the Potions Master rifled through his mind, but Snape’s own eyes remained sharp and fierce.

Then Severus blanched and he sat back. He looked at Lucius and said, quietly, “it’s even worse than you suspected.” Lucius took the other’s word for it, knowing that Snape would not exaggerate, and knowing that every fear he specifically had not written in his letter Severus would already have read in his eyes. Snape waved his wand and Draco slumped sideways, asleep.

Lucius started to protest but fell silent at the look Snape gave him. He sat back in his chair, the hand on Draco’s shoulder trembling slightly, and listened to the Potions Master’s soft, cold words. Snape’s lips twitched with disgust and peering out through the curtain of his hair his dark eyes gleamed like wandlight before a Killing Curse.

Lucius’s face went white with horror. His lips pressed together tightly and the muscle in his jaw developed a dangerous tic as the Potions Master spoke on, detailing things that should never have been. Lucius Malfoy found that the hand that was not clutching his sleeping son was caressing his wand.

When Snape finished there was silence for a long, long time.

“I just thought he’d hit him,” Lucius at last said hollowly, holding his forehead. “The way he—” Malfoy fell silent. Snape nodded curtly; he understood. “My son...” Lucius whispered.

Snape discreetly looked away, giving Lucius time to master himself. Then he asked, quietly, “what would you like me to do?”

“Whatever is best for Draco,” Lucius replied at once.

Snape nodded. “I would think it best to remove all the layers of Memory Charms completely,” he said coldly. “The boy will be able to remember what happened, of course, but I would think that even the knowledge of such...deplorable acts will be less detrimental than the potentially damaging effects of an improperly performed charm on such a young mind.”

“You—you couldn’t just...put a proper one in place?” Lucius asked hopefully.

Snape shrugged. “Possibly,” he said, without bragging; Snape was exceptionally skilled in all areas of mental magics and both men knew it. “But it would be better for the boy, I think, if I were to not attempt such a risky spell. He is at a very mentally unstable age and any sort of tampering, even by an expert, might hamper the development of his faculties.”

Lucius nodded reluctantly. “Very well,” he said, feeling like a monster. “Remove them, then.”

Snape nodded and lifted his wand again, pointing it at Lucius’s precious only son.  He glanced at Malfoy, and must have seen the torment in his face. “It may be that since the memories were removed once, Draco will think it merely some kind of horrific nightmare, when he remembers,” the Potions Master offered consolingly. Lucius tried to smile in gratitude but the expression faltered on his face.

Severus murmured incantations, his dark eyes going slightly unfocused as his concentration left the room. Draco muttered in his sleep and his eyelids fluttered but he did not wake as the Potions Master worked his magic.

Snape blinked and sat back, placing the wand on his desk once more. “It is done,” he said. “I believe I have removed all traces of your father’s magic.”

“Thank you,” said Lucius, a bit stiffly.

“The memories should come back to him slowly over the next week or so,” Snape continued. “I set the block to remove itself gradually so it would be less of a shock to the boy. There should be no further problems...magically speaking, at least.”

Lucius nodded. “Thank you, Severus,” he said again, more fervently this time. His gray eyes were very cold. “I would ask you not to discuss this with anyone.”

“Of course not,” said Snape immediately. “Although the Ministry—”

“Need not be told,” said Lucius firmly. 

Snape frowned. “With something like this, I should think they ought to know. Surely whatever embarrassment the situation might carry would be outweighed by—”

“If the Ministry is made aware,” Lucius said darkly, “then they will be suspicious.”

“Of you?” Snape asked, plainly skeptical. “They can’t blame you for not being omniscient enough to prevent it, whatever many of them might still believe about your...allegiances,” he finished lightly. Both men glanced, so briefly they might not have looked at all, at their left arms.

“No,” said Lucius Malfoy, “they will be suspicious when they hear about my father.”

“Ah,” said Snape. He did not need to say more. He understood. “Then none will ever hear of it from my lips,” he assured his old compatriot.

Lucius smiled coldly. “Thank you, Severus.” He stood up and gathered his slumbering son in his arms. “If you will excuse me, I should get Draco home.”

“Of course,” said Snape. He rose as well and walked with Lucius to the door. “If you need anything else...” he offered.

Lucius nodded. “Very generous,” he said. “I shall not hesitate to ask.” He shifted Draco so that he could hold him one-armed and extended the other to the Potions Master. “You’ll come for dinner sometime next week?” he asked. “Cissa will never forgive me if you don't agree.”

Severus smiled. “Then I shall certainly be there,” he said, and they shook hands. “Narcissa’s temper is not something to be ignored lightly.”

Lucius smirked. “Indeed not,” he said. They nodded curt farewells and wished one another good day, and Lucius Malfoy walked out of Hogwarts, his heart much heavier than the small boy he carried.

Draco stirred as they crossed the lawn, and squirmed out of his father’s arms, laughing lightly as if waking from a very good dream. He skipped across the grass, Lucius trailing after him with deep shadows in his gray eyes. When Draco tripped Lucius floated him gently back to his feet, and fought back tears.

 _His own father_...

Lucius’s heart went hard and cold and he knew what had to be done.

 

 

 

Draco pulled the heavy velvet drapes tighter then froze, worried that the movement of the curtains might have given him away. But the soft drone of voices continued uninterrupted and he breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He didn’t want the grown-ups to know he was listening; he was certain they’d make him leave.

He didn’t know exactly what was going on, but he knew that they were speaking in tones that meant something serious was being discussed, and he wanted to hear what it was. So Draco had slipped into the study and stood flattened behind the curtain, out of sight, and strained his ears to hear through the heavy drapery.

His father was in there, and so was his grandfather. Grandfather had shown up just a little while ago, and father had told Draco he didn’t have to come and say hello, which had left him strangely relieved. He didn’t know why, but grandfather frightened him.

Not right now, though. Father was in the room, and Draco knew that nothing could ever hurt or frighten him with father around. If father was there, he was safe, from everything.

Except perhaps a scolding if he got caught. But Draco Malfoy never much feared being scolded by his parents. They were so rarely sincere in their censure.

But right now his father’s voice sounded colder and crueler than Draco had ever heard it before. He shivered at the icy, barely restrained rage in Lucius Malfoy’s sharp tones.

“The way I see it, father,” Lucius said, “given what has transpired—” and somehow his frozen voice dropped another twenty or thirty degrees, “—you have two choices at the moment.” He rested a hand lightly on the heavy, carved desk beside him. “Either you can drink whatever is in this goblet and die a gradual, seemingly natural death that leaves our family’s honor intact…”

Abraxas raised his eyebrows and moved to speak, but Lucius held up a stern hand to forestall him.

“ _Or_ ,” he continued pointedly, “you can refuse, and I will kill you now, and when the Aurors come to arrest me for the Killing Curse I will be forced to explain _why_ I felt the need to murder my father, and then our name will be ruined forever.”

“I _beg_ your pardon?” Abraxas asked, his gray eyes bulging with outrage.

“You heard me,” Lucius said coldly. “Make your choice.”

Abraxas sputtered like a kettle left on to heat too long. “You listen to me, boy,” he began angrily, “I won’t be spoken to like that, least of all by you—”

“You’ll be spoken to however I wish,” Lucius interrupted harshly, “and count yourself inexplicably fortunate that so far all I’ve done is speak. Now,” he sneered, “you need to choose, or I’ll decide for you.” Lucius Malfoy pointed his wand at his father, and neither his cool gray eyes nor the thin sliver of elm waved in the slightest.

Abraxas stared at his son for a long, tense moment. Lucius did not move. Finally the older man broke and, glancing away from his son’s heartless gaze, stepped up to the desk. He wrapped shaking fingers around the stem of the silver goblet and tossed its contents back with a grimace.

Lucius nodded coldly. He had known all along what his father would have to choose. Abraxas couldn’t have the family name marred, after all—certainly not like _that_.

“Now get out,” he said.

Abraxas scowled, his sharp eyes cunning and desperate. “If I suddenly fall ill at the same moment that we stop associating,” he pointed out smugly, “people will be suspicious.”

“We’ll still ‘associate,’ father,” Lucius sneered calmly. “You’ll come to dinner this very week-end.” His eyes glittered dangerously. “And you’ll never come within arms’-reach of Draco ever again, or I’ll turn to the wand instead and the Aurors be damned.”

Abraxas’s frown was a smoldering forge of rage.

Lucius smiled, the expression thin and sharp and without even a trace of filial affection. “But for now we’ll still play the dutiful family as we ever have—at least when people are watching,” he told his father. “And be grateful,” Lucius continued, false goodwill gone, “that I won’t tell Cissa what you’ve done until you’re dead, else you’d be begging me for a Killing Curse before the day was out, have no doubt about that, _father_.” He spat the word like a curse, and perhaps to him it was.

And Abraxas Malfoy, cowed before his son, slunk out of the room and out of the house and Lucius watched him go with no twinge of remorse in the cold, gray eyes that he shared with his father, and with his son.

 

 

 

Within two years Abraxas Malfoy was dead of Dragon Pox, an ailment that was rare these days and even more rarely fatal, but then Abraxas had always been stubborn and by the time he was forced to go to St Mungo’s for care it was far too late.  

And if his family didn’t cry at his funeral, well, everyone knew that Abraxas had been a cold bastard and it seemed his son was made of the same hard, heartless mold, and there had never been any secret that there was little love lost between the Malfoy men. So when they stood there, the three Malfoys, pale and stern and dry-eyed, even the little boy, no one watching thought much of it.

Certainly there were no suspicions directed at Lucius, at least none that anyone felt confident enough of to voice aloud, and when the casket was carried out and the family followed there wasn’t even so much as a murmur of skepticism trailing after them. No one called the death anything other than natural causes; a pointless shame that the old man had been so hard-headed about it and had all but guaranteed his own demise, refusing proper care like he had, but there was nothing suspicious in that, not to anyone who had known Abraxas Malfoy.

There was one observer there who felt differently, of course, but Severus Snape’s dark eyes didn’t glitter with suspicion but rather with certainty; he knew exactly what had happened to Abraxas Malfoy, and why. He just nodded coldly like a pale, sepulchral judge passing sentence, glared savagely at the casket, and thought to himself that Lucius Malfoy had done a fine piece of work.

Snape smiled thinly at little Draco who frowned, confused, as if he were trying to recall some half-remembered dream; then the Potions Master turned in a swirl of heavy black robes and walked out, having no stomach to listen to the lies of all the people who had claimed to know Abraxas and now sung falsified, posthumous praises.

Snape, like Lucius, knew better and so Abraxas Malfoy passed into his grave unmourned.


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set between Half-Blood Prince and Deathly Hallows.

Lucius stumbled and winced into the sunlight. He’d expected to be nearly overwhelmed by the sudden rush of the return of all the happy thoughts and pleasant memories that were leeched by the caliginous atmosphere of Azkaban, but he wasn’t. His thoughts still dwelt on the dark and terrible reality that had plagued him throughout his imprisonment; the reality that was still there waiting for him now that he was free.

His thoughts, the whole time he’d been in Azkaban, had been with his family. His beloved wife and his precious son. Happy thoughts, most of the time, but not now. Not when he’d known what his failure could mean for them, not when he’d known into whose terrible presence he had abandoned them. Thoughts of his family had tormented him during his imprisonment; thoughts of what they might be facing without him, thoughts of what punishments they might suffer in his name.

And now he was free, and his son was standing in front of him, and he felt no better. The Death Eaters stood in front of him and his son stood among them. Lucius stared at Draco in hollow horror. His son looked pale and thin and tired and on his left arm he bore that familiar Mark. 

Draco met his father’s eyes and then looked down, cringing as if in shame. Whatever the Dark Lord had forced the boy to do, whatever punishment he had been assigned in revenge against Lucius—it had not been the moment of glory that Draco had expected it to be. He had not proved to be the hero, the savior that he had thought himself. In the last year he had, somehow, grown up, and it had broken him.

And it was Lucius’s fault.

He had not been there to save him.

Lucius ran forward and folded his son into a tight embrace. Draco gave a gasp that was almost a sob and clutched his father, fingers digging in tightly to his shoulders. Lucius held him close and stroked his hair and did not care that there were tears running down his own gaunt cheeks for all to see if they cared to look. His son was suffering, and it was his fault. The moment he first saw that thing on his son’s arm a hollow, yawning chasm of despair opened within Lucius and his heart sank into a pit colder than all of Azkaban.

He had never wanted this. Not even back in the first days of glory when he still grinned with pride at the thought of his own freshly-earned Mark had he imagined leading a son to follow in his footsteps. Back then Lucius had believed that they and their Dark Lord would be ruling the Wizarding world before he had a son to raise; after, when the gloss had worn off and the Dark Lord had fallen and there was little Draco to think of, then he had known that, still proud as he was of his own actions and still certain of the rightness of their cause, he had known that he never wanted Draco to follow him into the Dark Lord’s service. It was too dangerous, too dreadful; the Dark Lord was not an easy master, and Lucius had never wanted to see his precious son anywhere near his lord.

But now there stood Draco with the Mark on his arm and shadows in his gray eyes and there was no barrier between Draco and the Dark Lord’s wrath. Lucius shuddered. He had felt his lord’s anger; knowing that now Draco must have as well broke his heart. He should have protected him; he was supposed to be there whenever his son was in danger, supposed to save him from everything but he hadn’t—

He hadn’t—

And now it was too late, the Mark was on his arm, and Lucius couldn’t protect him anymore. He belonged to the Dark Lord now, and there was nothing Lucius could say to undo that deed. He didn’t ask Draco what horrifying task he had been forced to carry out in hopes of redeeming their family’s name; he didn’t ask what terrors he had been made to witness, what threats he had labored under; he would know soon enough the gruesome details of his precious son’s trials.

For now it was enough to hold him and try to pretend, just for a moment, that Draco was safe and Lucius could still make the darkness go away.

But he couldn’t. Now the Dark Lord was laughing coldly and Bellatrix cackled and dear little Draco was in their power and Lucius Malfoy had never hated himself more than he did right then when he realized what he’d done to his son.  


End file.
